


the only thing that i ask, love me mercilessly

by sesquipedalianMarquis



Series: 'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all [2]
Category: Descent Into Avernus - Fandom, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: ? - Freeform, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Biting, Bloodplay, Body Modification, CBT, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock Piercing, Cock Slapping, Deep Throating, Demon Sex, Demon cock, Descent into Avernus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Face Slapping, Humiliation, I cannot overstate that there is an actual devil in this fic and he is the NICER person, In Medias Res, Just Sex, M/M, Masochism, No Aftercare, No Romance, One-Sided Relationship, Oral Fixation, Overstimulation, Pain Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Power Bottom, Public Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, S&M, Sadism, Scratching, Size Kink, Succubi & Incubi, demanding sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26425081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesquipedalianMarquis/pseuds/sesquipedalianMarquis
Summary: When pain is what keeps your soul from physically exiting your body, being a masochist is a really, really good asset.Dread, an elf on a mission in Hell, is losing bits of his soul. Luckily, there's a friendly sex fiend around to hurt him just right.Please heed the tags and enjoy.
Relationships: Faltrax the Incubus/OC
Series: 'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1920727
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	the only thing that i ask, love me mercilessly

**Author's Note:**

> I want y'all to know that while Dread is getting his guts rearranged by a devil, the rest of the adventuring party are going around the fort fixing broken machines and helping settle madcap feuds and generally just being useful for themselves, others and the plot.
> 
> The first fic (if you wanna use me up and leave me in the bed) doesn't count as canon, that was just self-indulgence, but this? This canonically happened in the campaign. DM, I love you, you glorious smut-enabler.
> 
> Dread has a slutty, slutty playlist! The fic title is from the first song on the list, "Hatef--k" by Three Days Grace. Listen to it here:   
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4GU0JvXqU8Fu3Q0d3bOnHr?si=bQjpz1EdTeeq8VjDHzHJkg

“Fancy running into you here,” Faltrax purrs over Dread’s shoulder. His hand is firm on Dread’s ass, not just a passing pat but a proper, firm grab, fingers digging into the muscle. It feels like the first thing he’s felt in a week.

“I could be stabbing you for this,” Dread states. The soulsnare pools to the ground in a clatter of blades, pulls taut to his grip. The metal is cold on his gauntlets (cold) and his (cold) hands.

“Like you didn’t know what you were walking into,” Faltrax lilts, drags his hand along the line of Dread’s thigh. Dread can feel a heartbeat rush through him, faster, firmer than before. “You look like you have a lot of time on your hands, just wandering about. Not the look of a man who’s got somewhere to be.”

“Any funny shit and I stab you, skin you and keep your horns as a souvenir,” Dread threatens and covers Faltrax’ hand with his own, pulls it over the buckle that holds up his tassets.

“You know this fellow, then?” asks Ozymandias, giving Faltrax a weird look from where he’s perched on Dread’s shoulder. Dread shoos him off—the soulsnare clatters against his breastplate and arm-guard. Faltrax flinches and draws his arm back, keeping away from the chain’s cruel, hooked blades. Smart devil. The soulsnare’s always thirsty.

“I don’t care what you do, King of Kings,” Dread says. “Say hi to Solmyr for me. Get a good angle if you’re looking. Faltrax, you got rooms here?”

“Hey, I just got here,” Faltrax says apologetically. “We could find a broom cupboard or an empty room, if you want?”

“Takes too long.” Dread drops the soulsnare with a clatter, drops his gauntlets on top and hits the ground. The impact thuds through his knees much too dull. “I don’t care if every Redcap in this fortress hears.”

“Or the imp?” Faltrax threads his hands through Dread’s hair (too light, too careful), leans back against the wall.

“Familiar.” Dread drags his hands up the (supple, supple) skin of Faltrax’ thighs, soft under his palms. He doesn’t take his eyes off Faltrax’ barely hidden dick in his skimpy excuse for clothes. “Someone’s seeing through his eyes at any given point.”

“Sexy,” Faltrax quips while Dread drags the cloth aside, and then goes “Fuck, that’s it,” when Dread goes in and works his tongue along his cock. He’s so gods-damn warm, devil-hot under his mouth, and Hells, Dread’s too damn cold.

Incubi, huh. Faltrax grows hard in record time, to Dread’s absolute delight. He wasn’t expecting to be disappointed by a literal sex fiend’s dick, but the ridges along the underside of the heavy swell of it, the broad tapered head, the fat girth of his shaft still send a lightning thrill down his gut. He tastes salt and skin as he licks at him like his favourite treat, and when Dread cradles the underside of the head in the split of his tongue and drags the studs along the meaty ridge of it, Faltrax finally, finally pulls his hair.

The sting of it settles Dread into his skin, grounds him into his body, and gods, food may taste bland now, water may not quench, but at least a rough touch still burns through him. He gives an approving moan and plays his tongue-tips along the sensitive underside of the glans, which has Faltrax tugging at his hair again—not pulling him in, just holding tight, almost tight enough.

“Fuck, your tongue is wicked enough you could be a concubus yourself,” Faltrax praises (a smug thrill). “Hey, I’m as glad you changed your mind as the next guy, but, uhh— you got any hard limits? Other than ‘no draining’?”

Dread rolls his shoulders to feel the sting of his harness and sighs, reluctantly frees his mouth.  
“No scat or piss, my watch-word is kiwi, now will you fuck my mouth and call me a whore or do I have to do all the work around here?”

Faltrax gives him a look that might be irritation, but it’s gone as soon as it’s there.  
“Very well,” he says. “I can do that.” He hooks a thumb in Dread’s bottom jaw and tilts his face up, makes a little show of inspecting him. Dread gets theatrics, he likes theatrics, but right now it’s not making him _feel_. So he waits, impatient mouth open, tongue-tips twining enticingly.

“Even down here, a mouth like that is a rare find. How I’d like to take my time with you, pet, really savour you.” Faltrax (finally) takes his dick and points the flushed head at Dread’s mouth, and fuck yes, Dread gets to work. “Mmh. But you really can’t wait, can you? Needy bitch.”

That’s the fucking ticket. Dread digs his hands into Faltrax’ (stupidly nice) thighs and pushes his head forward, lets the studs in his tongue catch each ridge. It’s so warm, he’s so warm, a furnace under Dread’s hands—no doubt fiends run hot, but Dread realises he must have gotten colder. He hasn’t touched anyone in days. The devil’s touch is hot as a brand on his skin, burns like it might scar.

If he’s cold, Faltrax doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he finally hooks a hand around the back of Dread’s neck, nails prickling against his scalp. Dread obligingly tilts his head and shoulders, stretches out the line of his throat (and feels the sting of his harness, just right, all over).

“I know you want me to call you a whore,” Faltrax muses. Their eyes meet, fiendish red on shadow-black, and Dread hollows his cheeks and sucks hard. “Mngh. And you are an accomplished cocksucker, pet. But let me remind you that whores get paid,” he runs his other hand along Dread’s face, palm to cheek, “and you’re doing this for free, you desperate thing.” And Gods above, he finally pulls Dread forward properly and fucks his mouth.

Normally, it’s at that point he’d choke. All that’s there is is the remainder of his gag reflex, worn and beaten, and it’s comfortable, familiar, much too easy to push through now. But the flare of adrenaline in his chest, the way his vision narrows and his chest heaves for air is just... gone. It’s missing the thrill of it, the danger, the lightning shock that drags him into his skin like nothing else. Gone.

That does mean he can give a fucking fantastic blowjob, though.

Dread pushes aside the dull, queasy feeling of loss. Not many things kill his boner, but that’s a legitimate threat, so the only option is to fuck more vigorously to compensate. He pushes his tongue toward the roof of his mouth in a swallowing motion, feels saliva trickle down the corner of his mouth regardless. Faltrax curses above him, clenches his hands around Dread’s skull—a welcome counterpoint to the dull ache in his strained neck, tilted past comfort to stretch out his throat.

No need for breath? Fine. Dread can work that, make use of his traitor body. He grabs at the (warm, so warm) curve of Faltrax’ ass and pulls, takes him down his throat, hot and thick. His eyes water from the strain of not gagging too hard, Faltrax’ nails sting against his scalp, the harness bites lines into his shoulders and Dread is awfully, uncomfortably hard in his plate set.

He lets Faltrax take charge of the pace again (the fiend gives something like a sigh of relief, then ‘perfect, pet, perfect’) and scrabbles at the belts holding his gear in place, thanks the misbegotten Gods that he had the foresight to take off his gauntlets. In a miraculous feat of multitasking, he manages to both keep sucking dick and tug his belts and buttons open to get a hand on his cock.

By the time he does, though, Faltrax is looking at him funny. The smooth rhythm breaks, he pulls Dread off—yes, the sting, the drag is good, but Dread strains against it because he wasn’t _done_ , he wants that pace, that sensation, wants to fight his gag reflex and win and fall into the steady rhythm again, let it drag him under.

“Princes Below, but you’re pretty,” says Faltrax, traces the line of Dread‘s ear (his fingernail clicks against the row of piercings; he tugs a little on the vertical bar). “I’ll let you back at it in a second, but I wanted to give you a chance to breathe, first.” The statement is a question, really. Dread breathes in, but only because he can’t talk without air to make the sounds.

“I don’t need air. I need you to take that fat cock, fuck my throat ‘till I cry and then come all over my face.”

“Oh, you treasure,” sighs Faltrax, “how I want to keep you, you perfect thing. I can do that for you. Open up.” His fingers trail along Dread’s cheekbone too tender, too sweet; then the head of his brand-hot cock is on Dread’s tongue again, his hands around the back of Dread’s skull, and Dread has just enough time to tuck his teeth before he’s fighting not to gag again.

It still makes tears well up in his eyes, even without the need for air. Dread struggles not to heave, shakes with the effort of holding his mouth open and pliant and just right, and fucking succeeds. No blunders, no mistakes, none of the stupid shit, just Faltrax, using him like he was made for it, crooning encouragement. It’s all trite crap, praise for how good Dread is being and that sort of thing, but he doesn’t need it. Not when he gets his success from feeling his lips touch the base of Faltrax’ stupid fat devil cock, the strain of his throat, the haze of sensation that clouds his vision and his thoughts. He leans into his harness, lets it bite into his chest and back, pushes at the ring through his dick and fucks his fist in the same pace that Faltrax uses his mouth with.

Gods, he can feel Faltrax’ pulse on his tongue. Arousal beats through his blood; he’s dizzy with the steady burn of it. It might’ve saved him, half a week ago. To think, a fiend doing good for his soul. Dread opens his (watery) eyes and flares his sense. The madcaps down in the courtyard light up with demon blood like awful pinprick lanterns. Faltrax is cast into sharp, pungent contrast, the acrid outline of his horns, the bitter flare of his wings, the fiend-crimson of his eyes. They widen at the pulse of cognition emanating from Dread, but given that he doesn’t stop sucking his dick, Faltrax gives it little mind, just calls him pretty again.

Dread can feel the rings through his bottom lip brush against Faltrax’ balls, strains around every ridged devil inch, his senses suffused with sulfur and ash. On his knees for a fiend. Faltrax doesn’t even need to call him a whore; Dread has debased himself enough on his own to make his dick aching adamantine hard (and his throat raw, and his knees hurt).

There’s a concerning track of demon-madcap coming closer, though, up the stairs to the battlements. The nasty shine that is Ozymandias takes off with a leathery flutter to Gods know where, but likely not to deal with the approaching problem. Fine. Dread will have to deal with it himself (useless devil). He stuffs his dick back into his breeches and grabs Faltrax’ ass with both hands, practically drags him down his throat to a soft “oh, fuck” from the incubus.

“You want it that badly?” he murmurs and stops fucking Dread’s mouth with that awful, brilliant precision that Dread needs up his ass like, yesterday.

Dread pulls off the head of his dick with a pop, licks up the string of spit that dangles between them like lewd spider-silk for a moment.

“Come all over my face,” he rasps, his voice a ragged, ruined thing, because breath or no breath, if you get throat-fucked, you’ll sound like you got throat-fucked. He lets his mouth hang open, tongue out and inviting, and Faltrax takes himself in hand and absolutely goddamn covers him—Sune’s tits, incubi don’t play around—absolutely fucking covers him in come.

Dread licks some off his lips, salty and less bitter than he expected, takes a steadying second to revel in just how ridiculously hard he is in his trews, then grabs for the soulsnare. Faltrax, like any person with decent self-preservation instincts, flinches and darts a solid ten feet up (his dick slaps against his thigh kinda funny), but Dread whips around towards the stairs. A madcap with a mean, rusted sickle and a bloodthirsty glint in its eyes shuffles up the last step.

It darts towards him, but Dread has long arms, a longer chain and the best reflexes on these cursed battlements. Not good enough to keep the soulsnare from dragging a blade across his hand before he manages to grip it by the rings properly and whip it forward, but good enough with three centuries of practice to avoid slicing his finger off and just get cut.

The madcap isn’t so lucky. It evades the first hit of the soulsnare on pure animal instinct (too predictable), but it takes the second one square. The chain rattles and wraps taut around the madcap’s head; when Dread plants his feet and yanks, the hooked blades shred cap, face, throat where they’re slung around it and the madcap collapses with a screech into a bleeding, twitching heap.

Faltrax softly lands behind him while Dread pulls the soulsnare out of what’s left of the madcap’s degenerate brain matter and shakes clumps of flesh off it. And then wipes the tracks of spunk off his face, at least enough that it stops threatening to drip on his eyelashes.

“Your reflexes are admirable,” says Faltrax in a voice like he’s about to slide his hand down Dread’s trousers and maybe his other hand down the other side, too, despite the fact he’s maintaining a reasonable (but not failsafe) distance from the dripping weapon in Dread’s hands.

“Spare me the sweet-talk and help me find some kind of room we can barricade ourselves in. I do _not_ want a madcap running in club-first with you root-deep up my ass.” Dread picks up his gauntlets and definitely notices the enthusiasm with which Faltrax perks up and ogles the less-than-subtle boner in his legwear.

“I’ll find you the nicest, safest room to take you apart in, pet—“ is all Faltrax gets out before Dread grabs him by the wrist and pulls him past the madcap corpse and into Knucklebone Fort.

The devil yaps something about not wanting to be dragged around. First door, occupied room. Second door, also fucking occupied. Stupid redcaps. Dread lets go of Faltrax’ wrist (if only to stop him from complaining) and shoves him towards the third door.

“Make yourself useful,” he snaps, “I don’t have all day.” The fourth door is some kind of alchemy lab full of shit he does _not_ want to break. Damnit.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Faltrax chirps cheerfully through door number three. That’s a bust too, then. Dread fails to yank open the fifth—locked. For a second, he considers grabbing the various lock-cracking helps from his pack, but this is a night-hag’s fortress, and if they piss her off, she’s just as likely to skin—

“This one’s free,” Faltrax calls from two doors down and Dread hauls ass over. They rush into what seems to be a solitary craftsman’s workstation, with a perfectly sturdy chair that’s just ideal for jamming under the door, which Dread does as fast as reasonable movement will allow. And as fast as he can with an almost-naked incubus trying to plaster himself to every scant give of Dread’s body.

“Making sure we’re all alone, yes? Can I have you all to myself?” the devil purrs, dragging his nails along Dread’s scalp and working off his belt with the other. Dread rattles the door handle to make sure the chair is secure.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable trying to hump my plate armour?” Dread shoves against Faltrax’ shoulders (the devil moves back immediately) and works on doffing his armour himself, long familiar with the buckles and belts of it. “Be useful to get my greaves. Also, there’s oil in my pack, small flap on the left-hand side, lower one.”

“I like a prepared one.” Faltrax fetches the oil, then sits on the floor to figure out the leg-guards. Luckily, incubi seem to have a knack for getting people out of clothes (but Dread wouldn’t put very much stock into Faltrax being any use in helping him don his gear again). While Dread stacks his gauntlets, breastplate and tassets on a second chair, he takes stock of the room. It’s a cramped little workplace, engine-looking drawings and all that artificer stuff strewn about. Even has the luxury of a bone-barred window out onto the bleak hellscape of, well, hell.

Down on the floor, Faltrax makes a triumphant noise as he relieves Dread of one boot and shin-guard, and the drag of his nails along Dread’s inner ankle makes him shudder out of his reverie. Staring several extremely confused redcaps in the face after yanking doors open didn’t do any good for Dread’s boner, but he’s definitely getting back on track here. Especially with Faltrax sitting there on the floor, his head at such a convenient height that Dread really doesn’t bother resisting a little fantasy about teabagging the fuck out of that devil while he strips down.

“I can smell that, you know,” Faltrax murmurs as he unbuckles Dread’s other shinguard, his voice at least three notes deeper than usual. “I can smell your want. I could the first time we met, and it was overpowering then—“ he drags the boot off Dread’s other foot and just... keeps his leg there, a foot off the ground, bent at the knee, “but now, Princes Below, you reek with it. I’m gonna eat you up.”

“Eat me out, more like,” Dread quips, mostly to cover the way his blood rushed south with wild abandon at that. The cold banter in that ruined building, with Faltrax acutely, accurately aware of how badly Dread wanted to go over there and ride him like he stole him (better late than never).

“If you want,” Faltrax purrs, hooks Dread’s leg over his shoulder. They wobble a bit and Dread grabs a firm hold of the workbench next to him. It definitely looks like it can hold his weight, sturdy slab of wood that it is. And then he doesn’t think about the workbench, because Faltrax’ face is right there against his thigh, biting him through the fabric of his breeches, an awful tease. He wants those teeth in his shadow-cursed flesh.

His hands are clumsy as he fumbles the protective cup out of his undergarments and yanks open the laces of his trousers, shoves the whole thing down. A glint sparks in Faltrax’ red-gold eyes.

“Oh, that’s delightful,” he says, ogles the dull metal adorning Dread’s cock with covetous greed. “I’m gonna make you scream for me so hard, your friends won’t need the familiar to hear you. Take off your shirt, Dread.”

It doesn’t even occur to Dread to refuse. Which leads to him getting stuck with the shirt halfway over his head, the harness scraping dots of blood from his skin, because merciful Asmodeus, Faltrax licks his cock from balls to tip, and his lips are at the ring through the head, and his tongue is _still on his balls_. Gods-damned incubi. Some stitches in his shirt pop and he wrenches it off to a chuckle from Faltrax, who looks inordinately smug for someone currently wiggling a (frankly unfair amount of) tongue over the rungs of Dread’s Jacob’s ladder. Dread, for lack of smart-mouth comments, whimpers.

“Ah, you like that, pet? Should’ve gotten my mouth on you sooner.” The fucker takes his tongue off Dread’s cock to talk, which is the worst thing Avernus has had in store for him so far. “Could’ve snuck into the High Hall and—“

“Less talking. More cocksucking. And lemme get back on the, uh, eating me up and out thing, I want that inside me. I want that inside me ten minutes ago.” Dread grabs the workbench behind him for stability, lets his legs fall open. Faltrax wraps his (scorching, wet) tongue around him again, and Gods, Gods.

 **Dirty talk and cocksucking aren’t exclusive for me, pet. I thought you knew** , Faltrax’ voice rings (smug) between his ears. His tongue tapers much, much finer than a human’s or an elf’s, and when he drags it all the way to the head of Dread’s dick and wiggles that merciless tip around where the piercing disappears into his shaft, Dread’s knees shake. Gods, he’s so hard. Gods, he’s so fucked.

“Didn’t know you were gonna use your telepathy,” Dread gasps. He flicks his nipple piercing with one hand for that quick burst of sensation, pulls for the strain, and yes, it does the fucking trick, pain lights him up like a spell. He’s gonna get that demon’s fangs into his pecs sooner rather than later.

 **You want me to keep talking, don’t you?** Faltrax rolls his tongue around the sensitive, sensitive underside of the head of Dread’s dick and it makes him gasp. **Want to hear me muse on all the ways I could– Oh, that is _nice_.** Faltrax looked up, apparently, and saw the dark leather of the Penitent’s Harness, snug across Dread’s chest. He doesn’t stop looking up. He stares, and Dread hopes he’s figuring out the best way to use the harness to drag him on his dick while bent over the workbench, because that’s definitely what Dread’s considering.

In their shared moment of reverie, Faltrax does not, in fact, stop sucking him off. His mouth is branding hot and unfairly soft for someone who spends his time in ash and soot wastelands. He does break eye contact, but only to tilt his head and lick over every rung of Dread’s ladder, up until he places a sucking kiss just under the ring through the head, and Torm’s nuts, this is the hardest Dread has been in _years_.

 **I was promised a screamer** , Faltrax says, his voice honeyed and low in the back of Dread’s head, his tongue wicked and hot between his legs. **But you’re being rather quiet, pet.**

“Give me something to scream about, then,” Dread challenges, twists one hand in Faltrax’ short hair. Their eye contact burns him to the soul, a competitive flare in the fiend’s gaze. “Look at me. You think being gentle and sweet is gonna take me there?”

“Say it,” Faltrax tells him, bites at his thigh again too light, too easy, presses heated words into his cool skin. “Tell me what you want, Dread, and I’ll give it to you. Tell me what you need and I’ll let you have it.”

“Hurt me.” Dread pulls at Faltrax’ hair, forces that eye contact again. Feels the fiend’s nails sharpen into claws on his thighs. “Hurt me,” he says again, voice rough with the desperation that he’s been hiding so hard, “fuck me up, I want your teeth in my skin and your claws in my flesh, fuck me like you _mean_ it, you misbegotten devil!” A thrill of adrenaline shoots along Dread’s spine when Faltrax grins and his teeth sharpen, his mouth opens and he gets all close and cozy, claws prickling against Dread’s thighs, lips blazing hot and his lower fangs bracket the underside of Dread’s cock, just under the head, and Dread moans. There’s no hiding the way his dick twitches, either, with that terrible, terrific thrill in his gut.

 **There we go** , Faltrax purrs. He does pull away, stand, and Dread lets him turn him around and bend him over the workbench. They make quick work of his trousers and then Dread is naked but for his harness, with a very enthusiastic devil plastered to his back. Faltrax bites at his neck, pulls at the harness (and oh, the studs on the inside have a delicious bite of their own), drags long lines down Dread’s back. His claws clatter over the long double rows of corset piercings with a hungry touch, but neither of them have the patience for it, not right now when Faltrax is blazing a painful, blissful trail down Dread’s back while Dread bites noises into his knuckles.

The points of Faltrax’ claws dig into the meat of Dread’s ass when the incubus spreads his cheeks with both hands and gives a hungry growl.

“Do it, fuck me,” Dread encourages, widens his stance, and then that hot-as-hells mouth is on him, licking over him with long passes of a longer tongue. Dread exhales, sensation buzzing along his nerves, and leans into it. Faltrax eats him out like a man on a mission, greedy and demanding, his tongue working Dread over until his dick is aching hard, clawed hands kneading his ass until Dread’s knees go weak. He buries his head in his arms and lets the feeling wash through him.

There’s a soft ‘pop’ of the oil cork opening and Faltrax’ fingers are on him, slick and smooth (and no longer claws, just slim and dexterous hands now). The incubus slides one inside him, drags fangs over the curve of Dread’s ass. The sharp bites are a perfect danger counterpoint to one, then two deft fingers that mercilessly seek out his prostate. Dread gives a soft groan when he finds it, pleasure sparking up his spine, and for a second he considers rushing him on, but there’s something just so decadent about being thoroughly fingered.

“That’s it, pet,” Faltrax purrs when he feels Dread relax, drags his tongue over Dread’s hole again, leaves a bite-mark on the curve of his ass. “Give it up for me. Just let me make you feel good, hmm?” His touch is precise, thorough, stokes the heat coiling in Dread’s gut. He could work him over like that and Dread could come, probably, just those clever fingers. It’d take a while, but he could. He doesn’t have a while.

“More,” he demands, rakes his hand over his own chest to make the harness bite into his back. “I don’t want to feel _good_ , I want to _feel_.”

“Oh, I can make you feel, alright,” says Faltrax, and Dread can just hear his stupid smug grin. His free hand skates up Dread’s inner thigh, the tattooed one, traces some of the tally marks with his fingernail, and then wraps his hand around Dread’s balls. “This alright, pet? What’s your watchword?” The threat of his touch alone is enough for Dread to shudder. Leave it to an incubus to find his weakness that fucking fast.

“Kiwi. My watchword is kiwi. And I’m not saying it. Hurt me. Go on, you bastard, do it–” Dread’s sentence breaks into a moan, because Faltrax, the bastard, does as he’s told and tugs, a pull just on the right side of too hard, the pressure of his grip sending a sickening thrill through Dread. He crooks his fingers inside him and squeezes again, and Dread bites his knuckles as the nauseating ache manifests, swamps him in the sensation. His knees shake a little and Faltrax purrs.

“Oh, that really does it for you, huh?” Faltrax lets go for a second—the relief shoots through Dread like the release of a bowstring—and rubs over the tip of Dread’s cock, catches the pre beading along the ring. “Big, bad Dread just wants someone to be mean to him. Don’t worry, love. I can slap you around just right. Princes Below, you smell delectable. I’m going to eat you up. I want to _ruin_ you.”

Dread doesn’t get a chance to gather his wits enough for a snarky reply because Faltrax makes good on that, buries his face in Dread’s ass and slides that ridiculous (talented) devil tongue inside him. When he drags his slick hand up Dread’s cock, catches the head between thumb and forefinger and squeezes, the flash of pain has Dread gritting his teeth on a moan. He hasn’t felt so much in fucking forever, not since Baldur’s Gate, where anyone will do anything for you for the right coin, but Gods, this incubus really wants to do it fucking _right_. Faltrax doesn’t mention the way Dread’s legs tremble, or the way his dick drools with pre at the abuse, just licks into him wet and messy and open.

 **How much prep do you want, pet?** asks Faltrax. Between the way his voice sinks into the back of Dread’s head and the way he keeps fucking with Dread’s balls, he can hardly think enough to answer, his senses swamped in the swooping nausea of Faltrax’ finger snapping against his balls and the curl of that brand-hot tongue inside him. He squirms, dizzy and lost in sensation, makes a sobbing noise when Faltrax tugs again hard. Everything is the blackness behind his eyelids and the hands on his junk, the bite of his harness and the slide of tongue.

Faltrax eases off him, tones it down until he’s just got one light hand stroking his dick, and Dread surfaces, drifts like a dry leaf on a puddle.

“Come on, pet. I need words.” How does Faltrax even talk? Where does he keep all that tongue? “How much prep do you need? Want me to just keep this up until you come?” Kisses, hot and much too soft, too sweet on the back of his thigh. Dread aches for the lash of a cat o’nine on that same skin, or the crack of a paddle.

“Fuck me,” he grits against his forearm, cracks his eyes open. “Now.” Even the thick, burnt air of Avernus feels cold on his ass, slick with spit and oil, without that sizzling mouth on him. He’s empty. He wants to get fucked stupid.

“You sure?” Faltrax stands behind him, kisses up his spine, one touch to each of the tattoos, one frame for each vertebra. “I got a feeling you like ‘em big, and I’ll give you that, but we don’t wanna rush that, love.” His mouth is on the back of Dread’s neck, his dick against the back of Dread’s thigh, girthy as Hell, hot as a promise.

“I like it when it hurts.” Dread tilts his hips back, grinds against him. His balls still feel sore and vulnerable. It’s not enough. “Split me in half. Slow, I want to feel it all the way. And for the love of— anything, don’t stop.”

“I can do that. I know you don’t need to, but breathe for me, pet.” Faltrax straightens up to slick up his dick and Dread twists so he can watch him coat that absolute monster in oil. There are two rows of bumps along the top, now, like half-pearls under the skin. The incubus notches the fat head of his dick against Dread’s ass, breaches him with that first half-inch, and Dread tries (fails) not to go fucking crazy for it.

“There we go. Open up for me, nice and easy—”  
“I don’t _want_ nice or easy,” Dread hisses, reaches back to dig his fingers into Faltrax’ side and drag him forward. “ _Fuck me already._ ”

“Just a figure of speech,” Faltrax soothes and grabs his hips, lets his fingers grow into wicked claws again, grabs his hips _harder_ and finally, Gods, finally fucks him. It’s a wonder Dread’s hips don’t crack as he takes him (so big, so much).

Dread whimpers under the absolute onslaught. The stretch is a harsh burn. Every ridge feels like it’s too much and he pushes through, claws at the workbench under him, keeps one hand on Faltrax, daring him to fucking stop and second-guess again.

Faltrax does not, in fact, stop and second-guess him. What he does do is grab Dread by the harness and drag him onto his cock harder. The spike-lined inside bites into Dread’s chest and Gods, he’s so full of incubus dick he almost feels it in his fucking throat when Faltrax bottoms out, hips flush to his ass.

“Perfect,” says Faltrax, pulls out halfway and fucks back into him, and Dread chokes on a moan. “Look at you, you slut, you insatiable thing, I wanna hear you _scream_.”

He might actually get to, thinks Dread, braces himself against the workbench while Faltrax hammers his hips against the resistance of Dread’s body. The thick ridges on the underside of Faltrax’ dick drag inside him just right, so good it punches the breath from his lungs. Dread bears down, feels the slide of it get easier with each stroke. The coil of heat in his gut twists tighter. Just a little more to take him over the edge, just a little—

“Bite me. Teeth in my shoulder. Gods, make me _take_ it!”

Faltrax does, fucks into Dread hard and pulls at his harness and buries his fangs in the meat of Dread’s shoulder down to the blood. The sharp sting sends adrenaline singing through his sluggish blood—he can feel his heartbeat in his fucking dick, Gods, more—another bite, on the crook of his neck, a harsh hickey just under his jaw. Faltrax fucks him with brutal precision. The workbench smacks into the wall and Dread howls with it when Faltrax digs his claws into his back, drags stinging lines down, does it again. Dread’s orgasm hits him like a punch, eyes rolling back, has him gasping for the air he doesn’t need while he gets railed by a devil in a fucking hell-fortress.

A wave of boneless, tired bliss sweeps over him in the wake of it. Faltrax goes slower until he stills, laps at the blood that seeps from his shoulder. He doesn’t pull out (else Dread would kick him).

“Delightful,” Faltrax purrs, “oh, you’re a treat.” He kisses up Dread’s neck, leaves the telltale wet stick of bloodied lips.

“Keep going.” Dread keeps himself propped up, pushes his hips back, shudders at the sensation of it. “Come inside me. Go on.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart,” says the incubus, saccharine and soft. Dread rests his forehead on his forearms and lets Faltrax rock him with steady, deep thrusts, until he stops and groans, mouth on the back of Dread’s neck.

The empty feeling when Faltrax pulls out makes Dread shudder. He turns his head, sees the devil take stock of the mess he is. Faltrax is still hard. Dread wants it down his throat again. He can feel the tickle of oil and cum leaking from his hole.

“Beautiful. A glorious mess. You want a break?” Faltrax strokes across the small of Dread’s back like he’s gentling something skittish.

“No,” says Dread. “I want more.”

Faltrax raises an eyebrow. “Not even for snacks or like, some water?”

“I don’t need to drink. Or eat. Stop trying to take care of me.” Dread doesn’t bother keeping the sneer off his face. What a preposterous creature. “Just get over here, put your teeth in my chest and fuck me again. I can take it.”

“Oh, pet,” says Faltrax with a look of honest-to-Void pity on his face. Dread considers stabbing him with one of the sharper tools littered around the workstation, but Faltrax does run his hands over Dread’s ass. “Alright. Turn over for me, then, and I’ll bite you wherever you want.”

They sort themselves out. Dread flips over (the rough wood of the table stings on the scratches in his back) and Faltrax slots between his legs like a dream. His dick lies hard and heavy along the crease of Dread’s hip. He leans in all close, kisses along Dread’s neck, leaves more love-bites purple on Dread’s grey skin, purple as his tattoos. His lips ghost along Dread’s jawline.

“Do you kiss?” he asks, his breath warm on the soft skin of Dread’s throat. And oh, he’s probably a spectacular kisser, being a literal sex fiend.

“No.” (Not you.) Dread tangles his hands in Faltrax’ hair, guides him to where the harness frames his pecs.

“That’s alright,” says Faltrax, but the note of disappointment doesn’t slip past Dread unnoticed. Still, he doesn’t complain, just drags his mouth across Dread’s chest, hot breath and a hotter tongue. Dread wraps his legs around Faltrax’ waist and makes pretty little noises while the incubus tongues at his pierced nipples and leaves bite-marks next to the dark leather of the harness.

There’s a rattle when someone stops just outside and tries to open the door. Faltrax’ wings flare over them protectively and his eyes dart up at Dread with questioning intent, but Dread just pulls him back to what he was doing.

“Getting fucked in here,” he shouts, “piss off and come back later!”

There’s a grunt and shuffling footsteps recede down the hallway. Faltrax muffles a giggle against Dread’s pec.

“Very eloquent,” he quips, follows the outer edge of the wing tattoo where it spreads up Dread’s chest with his mouth.

“They come back later, I come now. Get back inside me.” Dread kicks his heel against the small of Faltrax’ back lightly like he’s spurring on a horse.

“More oil?” Faltrax is actually rather pretty, his (long-lashed) eyes half-closed, with his fine-boned face against Dread’s chest.

“Nah. I’m slick enough. Just fuck me like this.” Dread kicks him lightly again and Faltrax’ tail coils around his ankle, pushes his leg up and out. Dread lets him and a curious spark lights in Faltrax’ eyes. He hooks a hand around the back of Dread’s knee and pushes his leg back, and pushes his leg back, and Dread just lets him until his knee is pinned to his shoulder.

“Hot damn,” says Faltrax.

“Go on,” purrs Dread, fixes him with his sultriest look. “Bend me in half and fuck me.”

The look of sheer arousal on Faltrax’ face is enough to actually get Dread’s dick back into the game, over-sensitive but willing. Faltrax pins both of his knees to his chest and slides his fat dick inside him again. The rows of nubs on the top side of it rub him just right and Dread moans, gets a hand around his dick. Faltrax pinning him down (not that he’s heavy) knocks some of the air from his lungs, and again Dread is hit with a pang of loss, misses that thrill of danger that shortness of breath brought with it.

But he is getting the thrill of Faltrax fucking him again, and oh, the second time is always a treat, all raw and over-sensitive. Faltrax’ hands are clawed again, tight around the back of his legs, and when the incubus really puts his back into it, Dread’s eyes roll back. He jerks himself off with a dry palm, too rough and soon and sensitive, revels in the strain of his body. It hurts just right. The noise of Faltrax’ hips smacking into his ass is loud, likely loud enough to echo in the rickety junk walls of Fort Knucklebone.

“You look so good covered in marks from my teeth,” Faltrax tells him, his voice low, and Dread jerks himself off harder. “So pretty for me, so easy and open. You size queen. Gonna be limping after this? Shuffle around the fortress and feel how good I fucked you?”

Dread moans, a full-throated, wanton sound. Faltrax’ pace is fucking excellent. He’s stuffed so full with incubus dick he can hardly think around it. Maybe he’ll look like a walking noticeboard for incubus sex—not like he gives a fuck. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is Faltrax thoroughly rearranging his guts, keeping up that angle that has sparks flying behind his eyelids and pleasure pooling low in his gut and the residual throb of pain in his back, his chest, his shoulders.

“Mmm. I wanna make you come so hard you see stars, pet.” Faltrax kisses at the inside of Dread’s knee, fucks into him just right. “Make you come screaming my name.”

“You’re gonna, ah, have to hurt me better if you want that,” Dread challenges and watches the spark of it ignite across Faltrax’ features. His grip on Dread’s legs loosens and Dread wraps them around Faltrax’ hips again, pulls him close.

“Yeah?” The incubus’ face is inches from Dread’s own, those burning eyes staring him down. “Tell me, pet. Let me hear what you want me to do to you.”

“Hit me,” says Dread, bold as brass. “Hit me in the face. Slap my cock. Bite me. Make it fucking hurt, and maybe you’ll earn it.”

Faltrax straightens up, shakes out his wings.

“I can do that. What’s your watchword?”

“Kiwi,” Dread repeats, kicks his heel against Faltrax’ ass to jostle his dick inside him. “Do it,” and he barely has time to present the side of his face without the anti-eyebrow piercing before Faltrax backhands him across the cheekbone hard. Dread’s head snaps sideways, the dizzying swoop of pain rushes through him and then Faltrax is fucking him again, a steady beat that lights his blood on fire.

His legs are open, vulnerable. Faltrax drags his claws down Dread’s stomach, hard enough to make the skin blanch, watches Dread twitch with it. Dread stops jerking himself off, just cups his hand over his balls and watches Faltrax’ hand smooth back into a human one, neatly manicured.

“You’re gonna say thank-you for it,” Faltrax tells him. Dread nods.

Faltrax slaps him in the dick, open-handed. The exquisite agony jolts through Dread and he moans, moans for it, his legs locking around Faltrax’ waist, the sound ragged. His voice is gonna be wrecked by the end of this.

“Well?”

“Thank you,” Dread grunts and braces himself. Faltrax slaps him again, makes his dick bounce off his thigh. Dread rattles with the sensation it, grits his teeth. His dick weeps pre again, and Gods, for a second he’s hyper-aware of how open, how vulnerable he is for this fucking devil in the middle of Avernus—no, there’s plenty of sharp implements about.

“Thank you,” says Dread again, spots a pair of scissors—that’s enough to channel a Smite. He can take this guy, even dick-out. “Again,” he demands, and Faltrax delivers, waits for Dread to grit out a thanks before he does it again. Tears pool at the corner of Dread’s eyes, overwhelmed and swamped in exquisite agony. He shakes and shouts himself hoarse, digs his hands into the table and his heels into the incubus’ back. He loses count of how many times he’s said thank-you, loses count of how many miserable days he’s been down here, loses track of how fucking awful his life is because the pain is _now_ , and the pain is _controlled_ , all it takes is two words to get more. And he does get more, until it mounts, crests, until the ache of his body is the only thing left in his head, and only then is it enough.

“Fuck me,” he sobs, slings his arms around Faltrax and crushes him close, “fuck me, Faltrax, make me come,” and Faltrax does. He fucks him hard and wet and with soul-shattering precision, his mouth back on Dread’s sore nipples, his hands firm on Dread’s waist. He fucks him good, his dick curving delicious and thick into him, just right to build the pleasure in his gut. Dread’s toes curl and he digs his nails into Faltrax’ back, claws lines around the base of his wings. Faltrax screws him right through his second orgasm, drops one hand to his dick to wring every last shred of pleasure out of him, until Dread sobs and shakes with overstimulation, and yes, has just enough mind left to cry out Faltrax’ name.

He lets him ride it out all easy, slows his thrusts until they’re just crushed together at the hips, lets go of Dread’s dick. Dread goes limp on the workbench, stops breathing for a hot second while he drifts back into his head, takes stock of his protesting limbs.

“I love seeing you so… consumed with sensation,” Faltrax says, his voice silky-soft. “I never get tired of it. Mortal pleasure is the closest I’ll ever feel to Divine.” He lays a feather-light, too-sweet kiss on Dread’s shoulder. “Want me to pull out?”

Dread is suddenly rather aware of how tightly he has his legs locked around Faltrax. His hip joints protest, but he lets them fall open.

“Finish yourself off. Come all over me,” he allows, and Faltrax does just that, pulls out way more gently than necessary, takes that gorgeous dick in his hand and blows his load all over Dread’s ass and stomach. The fucker comes like a gods-damned satyr.

Dread is about ready to just fall unconscious then and there. Not that he would, but the heaviness of exhaustion settles in his bones all the same.

With an impish smile, Faltrax moves down his body and starts licking the spend off Dread with long, luxurious passes of his tongue. Dread hisses under his breath when Faltrax ‘cleans up’ his cock, tongue too hot over his oversensitive flesh, but it’s the kind of torture that leaves him with honeyed joints and a pleasant floating sensation in his head. So he allows Faltrax to lick his cock clean gentle as a kitten, and then lick the spend off his still-aching balls, and then Faltrax is holding his legs apart again and using that absolutely infernal tongue to lick his hole clean, and all Dread can do is lie there and whimper. It’s far too much and not enough all at once, hot enough to have him melt into the touch, so hot he’s burning up, so fucking filthy. His dick twitches weakly against his stomach, but he’s done, he’s spent.

Still, Faltrax presses his searching tongue up and in and pleasure fires through Dread, sharp and shocky as lightning, and his hips jerk without his conscious input. Only when Dread keens in overstimulation does Faltrax deem it enough and straighten up.

“Delightful,” he grins and finds a rag to wipe himself down with.

“Not bad,” Dread agrees, rolls off the workbench (every muscle protests) and picks his trousers off the floor.

“I do love it when you lot give in,” says Faltrax, stretches out his wings luxuriously.

Dread wipes the blood off his… everywhere, really. “You can go now,” he tells Faltrax, voice flat, before he reaches into that magical core of energy and drags out some healing magic. It drags, like wet cloth and mud, struggling against his grip, but it hasn’t failed him yet and it doesn’t fail him now, soothes his aching muscles and closes the open cuts. He leaves the bruises and bitemarks alone, though.

“What do you mean, go?” Faltrax looks… offended, or something. “What about the aftercare? No nothing, not even a hug?” He has his slender arms spread in some mock offering of an embrace and Dread stares at him, pulls up his trousers, and stares at him some more, his face that blank mask that’s so effective in getting people off his fucking back. An incubus, trying to… what, exactly? Gently wipe the tears from his face? Kiss his bruises better? _Hold_ him, like something precious or soft?

“Yeah, you can go now,” he repeats, makes a shooing motion. His eyes find the soulsnare on the chair, just in case, and then stare Faltrax down; he doesn’t need to make his threat out loud. The incubus’ wings actually droop a little, a pathetic display. Dread keeps his sneer to himself, his face cold and impassive. The best way to get rid of ‘em is to give them nothing to work with; someone who’s good at what he does can twist hostility around. But Faltrax seems out of his depth faced with Dread’s stone-faced indifference and slinks out of the room.

Dread cleans himself up and puts himself together, piece by piece, dons his armour again. By the time he’s done, he feels settled into his skin, downright vibrant. The aches and pains pulse inside him, fresh as a bloom. It’s the most alive he’s felt in… months. Years, even.

He steps out of the workroom and there’s (thank the Gods) no sulky incubus, but Solmyr is there.

Here we go, thinks Dread, and then things get worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Solmyr is the owner of Ozymandias, King of Kings, the imp mentioned at the beginning. He's this party's warlock, and immediately after this allies with Dread to do evil shit together, and they also fuck. This party is a mess, it's so good. Shoutout to turnpage, who liked the first fic- I'm not sure whether this counts as things going okay for Dread, because on one hand he's an evil soulless bastard, but on the other hand, he now has an equally evil ally!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave me a like if you enjoyed?


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